We Hunt the Flame(129)
Misk was still rubbing her shoulders, silently awaiting her response.
“For what?” Yasmine asked him.
What Zafira faced on Sharr was surely better than this. Yasmine didn’t want her to return. First they had suffered from the cold, then the loss of their parents. Then Deen. Now this.
“Suffering is our fate.”
Misk made a sound in his throat. “Have faith, Yasmine.”
“It’s hard.”
“That’s why I said have faith, not have a sweet.”
Yasmine gave him a look.
He laughed. “What? All of your terrible jokes are catching up with me.” He wrapped his arms around her, his chin on her shoulder, his voice warm in her ear. “Zafira will return with others in tow. Including a man I trust with my life and that of my mother’s. Deen knew of him, too.”
“And he will end our troubles with his oh-so-great powers?”
Misk let her mocking slide. “Not alone. But he will be part of it.”
The maids had brought her kanafah and mint tea, but the tray sat untouched, the tea long since cooled. Yasmine couldn’t stomach the sight of food or comfort. Everywhere she looked, she saw the bruised skin and still chests of the children. Small coffins and screaming mothers.
She was tired. So very tired, but she gifted her husband a small smile. “Does your mysterious savior have a name?”
Misk kissed her cheek. “Altair al-Badawi.”
* * *
He never did like the darkness. It was too heavy on the eyes, left too much to the imagination. It was where he had been shoved, confined, while his mother doted on his brother. While Arawiya celebrated the birth of a prince.
He preferred light. The dizzying kind that hung above the feasts he had once frequented with Benyamin.
Another sob slipped from his parched tongue.
Benyamin, who had risked his life for decades by acting as the one heading Altair’s treasonous gossamer web. His brother by choice, his friend by fate. Who lived with the guilt of his people’s negligence, with the guilt of his own kindness, embarking on this journey and not once expecting to die.
He was dead now. A lonely, honorable death, where he would rest with the Sisters of Old for eternity.
Altair watched the zumra leave. He saw the fall of Zafira’s shoulders, knowing what this battle had cost her. He saw Nasir, felling ifrit after ifrit, leading the others to the Alder ship. He saw his mother, weakened by Sharr.
None of them looked for him. Not while they boarded the ship. Not when they loosened their sails. Not when they left him. Even the lonely kaftar had pitied him before dispersing into the ruins.
Leaving him shackled by the Lion’s shadows, unable to escape. He had helped the zumra, released that dizzying distraction of light. And they had left him.
Then he was thrown on his hands and knees, forced to work alongside the chittering, shrieking ifrit as they salvaged a ship from Sharr’s ruins. Now, days—weeks?—later, his chains rattled as the ship heaved across the Baransea.
He knew why the dark creature hated him and the prince: Because we have what you do not. We tumbled from the womb with all that you strive for.
They were descendants of one of the Sisters of Old, with magic in their veins. They were vessels of power, even if they weren’t as powerful as the full-blooded Sisters. They didn’t need a magical heart or the light of a royal minaret. The land needn’t host magic for them to wield it.
The shadows stirred, alerting him to a visitor. Waves crashed against the ship, roiling the insides of his stomach. While his brother trailed shadows on another ship, he tossed an orb of light to the cabin’s ceiling.
His visitor’s amber eyes glowed, tattoo gleaming bronze, elongated ears tucked beneath his ebony turban. Ears much like Altair’s own.
“Hello, Father,” said Altair. His voice was rough. “Come to gloat?”
The Lion of the Night smiled.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s magic in words, I know, but there’s a particularly different kind of magic in the bond between blood. And this story could never have happened without my family. My greatest thanks goes, first and foremost, to my mother and father, for giving me courage and strength, and most importantly, for putting faith at my core. There is no greater gift.
To my sisters, Asma and Azraa, I owe you both the bulk of my smiles, my love, and my sanity (and insanity, if we’re being truly honest). Thank you for lending your brains so that We Hunt the Flame could be the greatest it could be. For being my biggest fans and my favorite critics. I love you both more than any alphabet can allow me to express. And yes, Nasir and Altair are yours before anyone else’s. To my brother, Abdullah, for sometimes being the worst, for being my earliest friend, and for reintroducing me to the world of books.
To my agent, John Cusick, for being kind and supportive and for always, always being there with the right words precisely when I need them. You found my book the perfect home.
My endless appreciation to my editors: Janine O’Malley, for seeing something special in my words and for being my greatest champion from the very first day; to Melissa Warten, who answers my hundreds of emails with enthusiasm and love. Thank you both for asking “why” countless times, and for making the rough stones of my work shine.
To everyone at Macmillan: Thank you for being the publishing home of my dreams and working tirelessly to make this book all it can be. To my brilliant publicists Brittany Pearlman (fellow displaced-Californian) and Shivani Annirood: Thanks for putting up with my mumbling and endless questions. To Molly Ellis: Your lengthy emails will always be a bright spot of this journey. To Melissa Zar and Jordin Streeter in marketing: It’s because of you two that I had to sign my name so many times, and I’ll forever be grateful for that and all else. To Hayley Jozwiak, for reading over my words a hundred thousand times. A much-needed thank-you to Elizabeth Clark, for putting up with the designer in me—and I don’t say that lightly.